The Other
by Charivari
Summary: Blair Roche was abducted because the killer believed she was a member of a wealthy family sharing the same last name. Years later, Rorshach encounters the young woman who Blair Roche was mistaken for. Reposted. Please r & r. Rorschach and Veidt centric.
1. Chapter 1

**The Other**

**Chapter 1**

**Author's Note: Hi! People who have read the comic will notice that I've used dialogue from Watchmen 1. For readers who have only watched the movie, it's actually Rorschach and not Dan who goes to see Veidt (read the comic! Both it and the movie are great, though Alan Moore would disagree on the latter but Alan you cannot deny that Jackie Earle Haley was awesome as Rorschach!). Enjoy, I tried to write Rorschach as authentically as possible (writing his journal entries was fun anyhow **_**hee**_**). **

_Rorschach's Journal. October 13th, 1985. Went to see Veidt. World's smartest man became world's richest man by whoring out his image. His desk is covered in Ozymandias dolls. While he sits playing with himself, kids who should have toys are beaten and abused. Dolls will help fill his coffers but it won't save them. He repulses me. Smartest man should know better. Should know better than all of us. Warned him about mask-killer though he doesn't deserve it. Didn't believe me in any case..._

"Not necessarily. The comedian had plenty of other political enemies to choose from, even discounting the Russians" says the man in the imperial purple suit, back turned to the man who has just recently climbed through his office window - without appointment, "The man was practically a Nazi."

"He stood up for his country, Veidt. He never let anybody retire him. Never cashed in on his reputation" says the masked visitor, voice heavy with implication, judgement, perched disrespectfully on other man's desk, "Never set up a company selling posters and diet books and toy posters based on himself. Never became a prostitute. If that makes him a Nazi, you might as well call me a Nazi, too."

"Mr. Veidt," the intercom cuts through the tension, "Miss Roche is here."

"Roche," mutters Rorschach to himself, distracted from making further character attacks.

Veidt gives him a curious glance as he brushes past to answer,

"Thank you Susan, please let her in," he says smoothly, smoothing his suit as he turns to his unexpected and unwanted guest, "I'm sorry Rorschach but we'll have to cut this short. My date is here and we have tickets to the opera."

"Date?" mockery and disgust worked into the word like a gob of spit. Adrian braces himself for more condemnation, surprised when it's followed by: "Roche. Name familiar."

"Her family founded the Roche Chemical Company," Adrian supplies, looking at his watch, more symbolically than actually registering the time, "Now I'm afraid I really must insist that you..."

Mid-sentence, the door to Veidt's office swings open.

_Rorschach's Journal. October 13th, 1985. Veidt eager to be rid of me. So he can go to opera where music can drown out the screams and his sense of responsibility. Opera of the streets. The innocent weep in time with sinful moans and death gurgles. Beethoven was deaf but he could still hear music. Even up in Veidt's tower, the city beneath calls to me like a siren song. Not like Veidt and Dreiberg, can't block my ears, it's in my head. Like Beethoven. Veidt's date came to his office while I was there. Suspect she is cover for Veidt's possible homosexuality. Her name is Roche, same name as murdered girl. She's from the wealthy family killer thought the girl was from and murdered her because she wasn't. Strange coincidence, unsettling. The way she was smiling when she walked into Veidt's office. Untroubled, happy smile. Made me think of Blair Roche's photograph. She's smiling in it, same smile. Difference is the girl in Veidt's office got to grow up and keep smiling..._

"Adrian!" a young woman who is twenty-three and swallowed by a black fur coat calls out with a wave. Her hands are snow-white, gloved.

She gives a jerk of surprise to see, beside Adrian, a man she recognises from television news stories and wanted posters.

"Oh", she says, equally fascinated and fearful, drawing in his details like the greedy inhale of a cigarette, paying particular attention to the mask. Still shots have failed to capture the way it moves. In the shifting blobs, she makes out a butterfly before it dissolves.

She doesn't realise that she is in turn being studied. That the masked man is comparing her to a murdered girl.

"Todd," Adrian says, sweeping over to kiss her cheek and greet her properly in spite of the_ other_ presence he's yet to be rid of, "It's good to see you. You look lovely."

Todd, Rorschach thinks, pretentious masculine name, as the woman blushes, her attention drawn away. Adrian is good-looking, especially up close.

"Thank you," she says shyly, paradoxically she slides her coat off her naked shoulders, planning to reveal the form-fitting evening dress underneath. Black, she thought it would go well with purple. Adrian wears purple like a signature.

"No, leave it on" Adrian intervenes, drawing the coat protectively around her glittering diamond throat, "we'll be going in a moment."

He takes her hand and raises her fingers to his lips and she wishes she hadn't bothered with gloves.

Veidt half-turns to the elephant in the room. The masked man is looking off to one side, discomforted by their intimacy, annoyed Veidt couldn't wait until he left for such displays.

"This man is a... former acquaintance of mine," Veidt says to Todd, in explanation for there being a wanted felon, unwanted on his part, in his office, "We used to be in the same line of work. He dropped by rather unexpectedly."

"I know who he is," Todd says in the tone of a knowledgeable child, "He's Rorschach." There's a quiver in her voice, a kind of awe, speaking a name that's almost mythical.

"Going now Veidt," Rorschach announces, he's done what he came here to do, "I came here to warn you about mask killer. So you didn't end up smartest man in the morgue. But I guess there's worse things to end up as."

Todd looks at Adrian in confusion – up until that point she had been gaping in alarm at the man crouched in the open window, of a very high building, thinking surely he isn't going to scale down it. Adrian is silent, brow furrowed, inwardly damning Rorschach's indiscretion. His plans for the evening hadn't involved reassuring his companion that his life isn't in danger.

"Miss Roche," the masked man says with a nod in her direction, farewelling her even though they were never introduced.

Todd shrinks behind Adrian, regarding him with more outright fear than before. He doesn't like it, seeing that expression on her, maybe because he's still associating her with a dead girl. Her lover's face is inscrutable calm, like the faces on his ancient statues.

"Be seeing you Veidt," he says to him.

He faces the night but turns back, an after-thought,

"Which opera?"

"Orpheus and Eurydice," Todd answers quicker than Adrian, robotically.

"Hurm," says Rorschach, "Enjoy your evening."

He falls out of sight, departing the way he came.

Adrian takes a breath before the task ahead, attending to the shaken girl and her head full of questions. He leads with a smile.

_Rorschach's Journal. October 13th, 1985. Left Veidt and Roche woman to make music of my own. Rape taking place in alleyway. Snapped all ten of rapist's fingers, symphony of breaking bone. Finale, snapped his weapon so he won't repeat his performance. Roche woman still niggling in my head like a worm. What does she know about the little girl who was murdered for having the same name? Plan to investigate. Found address in phone book. Will pay her a visit later, after more compositions. _

**To be continued...**


	2. Chapter 2

**The Other**

**Chapter 2**

Dreamy blue-lit Elysium.

Orfeo does not look at Euridice as he leads her towards the world of the living.

If he looks, he will lose her.

Act II closes, with a sense of foreboding and applause.

Intermission.

Veidt and Todd stand together in the midst of opera goers, drinking champagne.

"Are you enjoying it?" Adrian asks.

Todd should be enjoying it. The opera. His company. She should be revelling in it.

But her head's somewhere else. Back at his office, listening to a masked man, his talk of an assassin.

"Oh yes," she says, voice insincerely bright.

Adrian takes a sip of champagne.

"There really is no need for you to worry," he says perceptively.

She look sheepish.

There's no use trying to outsmart the world's smartest man.

"I know," she says, "It's just, a wanted vigilante popping up out the blue to warn you about some... mask-killer is a little..."

"Strange?" Adrian supplies with an amused smile.

"More than strange," Todd says, "The possibility that someone might make an attempt on your life and you don't seem the least bit concerned about it."

"Why should I be?" Adrian replies, "There is no evidence to suggest I'm in any danger. It's simply a claim by a man whose grip on reality is tenuous at best."

"Whether he's crazy or not," Todd persists, "He went to a lot of effort to see you. Climbing the building like that."

"He couldn't exactly use the front door," Adrian points out, "He's a wanted man, the probable cause for his paranoia."

He lays a hand on her face,

"Trust me. I have no reason to fear."

She's won over, cradled in the cup of his hand.

Todd cannot know, that in this moment, he is thinking about her death.

How it will be unexpected and quick. Merciful.

A small comfort to him, that there will be no prolonged terror or pain.

He's grown quite fond of her since their first meeting at a charity event, where she impressed him by knowing Shelley's poem, quoting the first line,

"I met a traveler from an antique land..."

If she had rehearsed it beforehand, he would still be touched by the thoughtfulness.

But he knows he cannot spare her.

He cannot set her apart from the rest. He cannot pick and choose.

Unless some act of divine fate delivers her out of New York, she will die.

"Can you really catch bullets?" Todd says half-joking, oblivious.

Adrian chuckles and leans in to kiss her, just above her eyebrow. Her eyes flutter shut, enjoying the soft press of his lips against her skin.

She'll never know the guilt sealed in that kiss. Veidt is too good of an actor.

What she does notice is the sets of eyes on them. Veidt's a famous face and they feel they have the right to stare. It's the public's obsession that made him his fortune.

Adrian pays them no heed.

"Of course I can," he answers her question with a wink, "Though it's an ability I don't expect to have to demonstrate. Unless PR forces my hand."

They both laugh.

Bell rings, intermission is over.

Veidt gathers up both her hands, white-gloved like snow and he thinks of Antarctica.

"I'm sorry," he says, suddenly serious, "The incidence with Rorschach seems to have cast a shadow on our evening. I've been thoughtless about your feelings. If you would like to call it a night, I would understand."

Todd shakes her head insistently.

"No, no. I've looking forward to this all week," she smiles, "And I want to see how it ends."

Act III.

Orfeo has looked back at Euridice, causing her to die.

Orfeo cradles her in his arms.

"Che farò senza Euridice?"

What shall I do without Euridice?

As Orfeo mourns and Todd watches, entranced, a man in breaking into her apartment.

Photograph draws his attention. Todd as a child, Blair Roche's age, with golden retriever. She's making a face, squeamish delight, dog licking her cheek.

He gets hungry, waiting for Roche woman to return home. Picks an apple out of her fruit bowl.

As he waits and munches, Orfeo in his grief goes to kill himself.

Todd leans forward in her seat.

Amore, winged Cupid, appears.

For Orfeo's devotion, Amore restores Euridice back to life.

Orfeo and Euridice are reunited once more.

"Trionfi Amore."

Long may love triumph.

Fade to black.

Applause.

House-lights on. Performers take their bows.

"The ending is different to the original myth," Veidt says as they walk to his limousine, "In the original myth, Eurydice has to stay in the Underworld while Orpheus goes back to the living."

He sounds disapproving of the revision.

Todd shrugs,

"That ending's not as happy," she says, simple logic, "People want a happy ending."

The opera has left her in good spirits. There's a spring in her step and she's humming under her breath.

"Yes, people want a happy ending," Adrian agrees as the chauffeur opens the door for them, "They want to be comforted. But the fact is the dead can't come back to life."

A fact he knows very well. This part of his plan is irreversible. But this is his burden, not hers. Let her be blissfully ignorant, until the very end.

"That's why we need to make the most of our lives while we can," he adds, an ominous pearl of wisdom.

"That's very true," Todd says, wanting very much for him to kiss her.

He does, like an actor playing a scene. He knows his cues.

"I had a wonderful night," she says as the driver pulls up outside her apartment building, "Thank you."

"I'm glad," Adrian says, kissing her on the cheek.

As she draws away, she wants to ask when she'll see him again. But she doesn't want to sound needy.

"I'll call you," Adrian reassures her, as if reading her mind.

He bids her goodnight and she joyfully races out of the cold, unknowingly towards the man who waits for her.

He's judged the distance to stand so he can put a hand over mouth before she can scream.

"Don't yell," Rorschach says, "No need. Not going to hurt you."

**To be continued. **


	3. Chapter 3

**The Other**

**Chapter 3**

"Don't yell," says the masked man, "No need. Not going to hurt you."

She does anyway, but it's muffled by his hand over her mouth.

She struggles too, but he's strong. She doesn't budge.

"Stop that. Not going to hurt you. Already said that. Want to talk to you."

Eyes roll up to stare at him, wild, confused, afraid.

Afraid of him.

Doesn't like having a woman so close to him, feeling of her pressed against him, squirming the way she is.

Grabbing her was a precaution.

"Only want to talk," he reiterates, "I'll let you go now."

She flies out his arms like a racehorse, across the room. A safe enough distance as long as he's stationary.

She thinks of yelling for help. She decides against it, the odds of someone hearing and reaching her in time.

He said he wanted to talk, didn't he?

"What do you want?" Todd demands.

"Wanted to ask you," says the man having broken into her apartment, in the middle of the night, for the sole purpose of asking, "What you know about Blair Roche."

Todd is thrown off. The question has nothing to do with Adrian, which is what she had been expecting.

What was the name he said? Blair Roche. That was her family name, but Blair didn't ring a bell. Not a distant cousin?

Maybe he's mistaken her for someone else. Someone related to whoever this was.

"Blair Roche? I don't know what you're talking about."

Her answer, her lack of answer, agitates him.

"1975. Blair Roche. Six years old. Abducted and murdered. Mistake by killer, thought she was related to your family, expected ransom," he rasps out, as if trying to jog her memory.

Only she doesn't remember.

"I'm sorry," she says helplessly, "But I've never heard of her."

"No?"

Her ignorance is upsetting. That Blair Roche's murder is unknown to her, including her connection to it, perhaps knowingly concealed, almost like a denial of it taking place.

Anger makes his hands shake, closes them into trembling fists.

"Little girl chopped up and fed to dogs. Should know about her, should have been told."

As a child, Todd had watched lions being fed at the zoo, with her older brother Dale informing her that the bloody pieces of meat and bone were actually dismembered human bodies.

That's what she thinks of. The lions' faces, bright red with what she believed, in her naiveté, to be human blood.

She puts a hand over her mouth, sickened,

"Oh God, that's terrible," she says, "I had no idea. My parents were always protective, especially when we - my brother and I were kids. We even had a bodyguard for a while, when I was thirteen. That's probably why they never told me."

"Family with money can afford protection. Blair Roche's father a bus driver. Couldn't pay ransom."

She perceives condemnation in his voice, becomes defensive.

"That's surely not my family's fault," she says, "They didn't force this - bastard, whoever he was, to abduct a poor girl. That was his choice."

Trying to distance family. Distance herself.

"1975. Would have been just a girl then. How old were you?" he asks.

Todd sighs. Where is this all leading to? What does he want from her?

"1975? I was..." she calculates, "Thirteen."

Thirteen.

The year the bodyguard came.

Ernie. She never learnt his last name. He just arrived out of the blue one day. Walked them to the school gates. Took them to the playground and their soccer games. Ernie was former boxer, taught them how to throw a punch, let them try on his sunglasses. A few months later, he went away, out of their lives as quickly as he had entered.

Suddenly she realises, the unlikelihood of the two events being coincidental.

A girl mistakenly held for ransom in the same year her parents hire a bodyguard.

Had Blair Roche served as a warning?

"Oh God," she murmurs, "That explains the bodyguard."

Thirteen. Already menstruating and growing breasts. Older than Blair Roche. Older than he expected.

But as children, captured in photographs, they share a resemblance.

Or is he just seeing what he wants to see.

Rorschach picks up photograph on mantelpiece.

Todd and the golden retriever. Dog licking her cheek.

Fred and Barney. Fighting over Blair's last bone.

Todd's little hands buried in the dog's fur.

German Shepherd's head, split open.

"That's Barkly," Todd says, suddenly close to him, peering over his shoulder, "When I was little, we were kind of inseparable. I'd hang on to him and he would lead me places."

She's rambling, it's nerves and the champagne in her system isn't helping.

She moves away.

How long has been since Adrian kissed her goodnight and her life seemed perfect?

She's still wearing her fur coat.

Todd shrugs it off, draping it over the lounge.

He wishes she had left it on. The dress underneath hugs her body, emphasizing its womanliness.

The act of shedding discomforts him, even the teasing off of her gloves seems sexual, exposure of flesh, piece by piece.

But she's oblivious to his unease

Pondering the disturbing revelation he has brought her.

A girl mistaken for her, who is murdered, and all this time Todd not knowing.

She doesn't even know what she looked like.

"I'm going to make some tea," she says, desperate for distraction, "Would you like a cup of tea?"

He declines, the logistics of it, having to remove his mask albeit only partially, in front of her. European anyway, drinking tea.

"There's one thing I don't understand," Todd says as the kettle boils, "What happened to that little girl is horrible and it's disturbing to think that maybe it could have been _me_ if the killer had done his research..."

She imagines herself as a child, huddled in a small dark space, a cupboard.

Steam hisses from the kettle.

She shakes her head, shaking the vision from her mind, busies herself with her tea.

"I understand all that. I wish I didn't, but now I do. I just don't understand why."

She looks at him, intense and vulnerable.

"Why did you come here tonight?"

That's the big question. Why did he come?

"She must have meant something to you," Todd says softly.

Blair Roche means everything. She is his reason. The reason he exists and the reason he goes on. She is Kovacs' failure and Rorschach's determination.

Rorschach sets down photograph of girl, to address the woman she's grown into.

"Realised who you were when I saw you in Veidt's office. Very probable Blair Roche mistaken for you specifically. When she was taken, I worked the case. Made it personal, promised parents I would find her. Bring her home. Located where she was being held. But I was too late. She was already dead. Killer had already fed her to dogs. Failed to save her. Broke promise."

Todd listens, pity on her face.

Pity for him.

Doesn't want her to pity him.

Pity the little girl who suffered in the dark, in pain and in terror, her body hacked up, dismantled like a doll and devoured.

Doesn't deserve pity. Didn't prevent it from happening.

"You tried," Todd says, "It sounds like you did everything you could."

She's trying to make him feel better.

But such rationalisation angers him.

Blair Roche is dead and he failed.

It's black and white.

There is no grey.

"What happened to the killer?" Todd asks, "Did you catch him?"

Inferno. Billowing smoke. Thick smell of burning wood.

Hellfire to punish the evil he's trapped inside, burning him alive.

"Yes. I caught him."

"Then at least you stopped him from doing it again," Todd says.

She's optimistic. Reminds him of Dreiberg.

Why shouldn't she be optimistic? She has her life ahead of her. Has Veidt to take her to the opera.

That's why she can't understand.

She was the one who spared, kept safe.

Todd Roche cannot offer him absolution. It's not hers to give.

There is no absolution.

Because murdered girls stay dead.

They don't grow up. Become women. Wear black dresses and diamonds.

Todd Roche is not Blair Roche.

But Todd Roche is what she might have become.

A glimpse of what could have been.

A reminder of why he cannot rest.

She's smiling at him.

The same smile. He's positive.

He understands.

It's time to leave, return to streets and unfinished business.

"Taken up enough of your night. Leaving now. Won't be troubling you again. Good night Miss Roche."

Todd is taken back by his sudden urge to depart. But she lets him go.

"Good night Rorschach."

Her tea is cold. She is cold. Cold and unresolved. There's a little girl on her conscience and a man who is walking the dark streets alone.

_Rorschach's Journal. October 13th, 1985. Tonight Justice smiled at me. It is her will I am doing. _

**To be continued...**


	4. Chapter 4

**The Other**

**Chapter 4**

**Author's Note: Admitting right now that I have no idea about New York geographically. I'm an Aussie. I did some research and I picked the Lower East Side for Blair Roche's family because I read it was a working class neighbourhood in the 80's. I also read that 80's SoHO was a big arts scene so it sounded like a nice place for Todd to work. Sorry to any New Yorkers if I've got my facts wrong.**

The next day brings more certainty for Todd Roche.

She goes to work, a book store in SoHo. _Mahoney's Books_. Her family is fabulously wealthy but she prefers to work here. She prefers books to business. Her brother is the heir apparent. He will take over from her father, just as her father took over from her grandfather. In any case, being a trust fund baby gives her the freedom to choose whatever lower paying job she likes.

Her co-workers pressure her for details about her date with Veidt. It's a distraction at least.

On her lunch break, she heads to a phone booth.

She takes a business card out of her purse.

Martin Henderson. _Nova Express._

She remembers him. Brown hair. Easy-going. Likeable.

They had only met once.

He was on the clock and she was on the guest list.

Perhaps they had been flirting a little. Before they parted ways, he had given her his card.

"If you ever need a reporter, just give me a call."

Cheesy line or not, now she needs one.

The idea has come to her that she wants to meet Blair Roche's parents.

She is hoping this man can help her.

She dials. Rocks anxiously as it rings.

Man's voice on the other end. Cheerful. Thick New Yorker accent.

"Nova Express. This is Marty Henderson." _Novah. Maarty._

Todd grips the receiver tightly, launching into her prepared speech.

"Hi, I don't know if you remember me. My name is Todd Roche. We met at the Veidt Charity Ball last month. You gave me your card."

Recognition is almost immediate.

"Yeah sure I remember you. Todd Roche. Roche Chemical Company right? How you goin'?"

She praises his memory. It means she can get to the point.

"I'm fine. I know this is out of the blue, but I'm ringing because I need your help with something."

"I'm intrigued. What can I do for you?"

"Okay this is going to sound strange," she takes a breath, gathers resolve, "I'm looking for information about a murder case. I thought someone from your newspaper might have covered the story."

Pause. She bites her lip anxiously.

"Wow, sure wasn't expecting that," says Henderson, she can imagine him shaking his head in bewilderment.

Another pause.

"Which murder case are we talkin' about? Recent?"

Todd shuts her eyes, relieved. His tone is of a man rolling up his sleeves to get down to business. He is going to help her.

"1975. A girl named Blair Roche."

"Huh, same name. She any relation?"

No, Todd thinks despondently, that's the reason she's dead.

"Just a coincidence. What do you think?"

"75 is a bit before my time. I can ask around for you. One of the older guys might have done a piece on her. Anything you wanna know in particular?"

"Name of her parents, where they live if possible."

"What's the interest, if you don't mind me asking?"

She's been expecting this, to provide motive for her strange request.

"The killer thought Blair was related to my family. Her murder was a ransom plot gone wrong."

"Geez. That's messed up."

He has it in a nutshell. Way with words. Go figure, he being a reporter and all.

"Tell me about it. I found out about it just recently and I thought I should, I don't know, pay my respects. Do you think that's that weird?"

He chuckles dryly.

"Yeah it's weird. But nice. Weird and nice. I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you" Todd gushes, grateful for both his aid and reassurance, "If there's anything I can do for you in return."

"Ha if I didn't know the competition, I'd say take me out to dinner."

"Competition?"

"Our photographer, D'Angelo, got a snap of you with one Adrian Veidt at the opera last night."

She remembers, posing, on Veidt's arm.

"If you could maybe give me a quote confirming your relationship I would sure appreciate it."

She smiles at the sudden emergence of journalistic instinct. To get the scoop while he's got her on the line.

But she has no intention of divulging anything. She couldn't do that to Adrian.

"Would you appreciate dinner more?" she evades.

"With a beautiful lady? What do you think?"

She smiles, rolls her eyes. Beautiful?

She likes his nerve.

"Then it's settled. Listen, I'm calling on a pay phone. Can I give you my home number?"

"Fire away... Okay, got it. When's a good time to ring?"

"I should be in after 7."

"Great. I'll see what I dig up for ya."

Morbidly appropriate choice of words. Digging up the past. Digging up a dead girl.

"Thanks Marty."

...

At this moment, Walter is dreaming. It is Walter who dreams. Rorschach has no control of the dreaming state.

Walter's mother looms before him. Corpulent. Flimsy dress with her breasts almost spilling out. Old look of repugnance for her son.

Whore!

Blood trickles down the middle of her head. Blood from a clean deep cut he recognises, performed on dog's heads.

Skin pulls apart from the wound. Like snipped stitch, falling apart. Peeling like banana skin.

In the collapse, Roche woman emerges out of her. Casts off his mother's body like fur coat.

Roche woman in her sensual dress.

Reaches and grabs hold of his face, pulling at the fabric, trying to force it off.

No! Not his face!

Screaming but he has no voice.

Pushes her away. She falls back, into the doorway of a familiar burning building.

She's engulfed, gone.

Goes after her.

On fire. Burning.

Wakes up, struggling, sweating, cursing. Disgusted by tears and sensation in nether regions.

Supposed to be stronger than this. Even without his face.

Pulls himself together. Vows to sleep less. Counter-productive anyway. There is a mask-killer to find.

...

Later, in her apartment, Todd's telephone rings.

"Todd? This is Marty. Marty Henderson."

It's 7:02. He must have been waiting, counting down the minutes. So has she.

"Hi Marty. Did you find anything?"

"Yeah. Talked to the guy who covered the story in 75, old-timer, Stan Leschinski. You gotta pen handy?"

"Hold on a sec," she retrieves the notebook and pen she put aside earlier for this purpose, "Yes?"

"Okay, girl's parents. Theodore William and Marjorie Anne Roche. Residence at time of kidnapping. Clinton St, Lower East Side. Checked phone book, there is stil and M A Roche listed at that address."

She grips her pen excitedly.

"Really? Marty, you're the best! I mean it."

"Nothin' to it," he protests, sounding pleased all the same, "Its rookie investigation. Here's the number..."

She jots it down with the rest and surveys the information in full. What's written on this page is her link to Blair Roche. Her parents. Where she lived. Her telephone number. The means to contact this counterpart family. A way forward.

"Thanks Marty. This means a lot to me."

She would throw her arms around him if she could, kiss his cheek.

"No problem... So I was thinkin', Rafael's, Thursday night, meet there at 7?"

She smiles. She will save that kiss for Thursday.

"Sounds good to me."

...

_Rorschach's Journal. October 14th, 1985.__Continued hunt for Comedian's killer. Eludes me. Broke more fingers, no new leads. Justice has no smile for me tonight. Roche woman is with me. Face burnt into the back of my eyes. Bad dream, can't shake it. Damn Kovacs. Resolved to sleep less. Killer can sleep. Let him dream while I pick up his scent. His nightmare is coming for him._

**To be continued...**


	5. Chapter 5

**The Other**

**Chapter 5**

Todd is staring down her telephone.

She has the Roche's phone number. Now she only has to work up the nerve to dial it.

She had been so sure before, certain that this was the right thing to do.

Tracking them down had proved easier than she had anticipated - thanks to Marty.

Perhaps things are moving too fast. She hasn't had the time to prepare.

Doubt has crept in, growing more and more as minutes tick by.

Maybe she shouldn't call.

What if she upsets them, dredging up painful memories?

That's not what she wants.

The reason she is calling is to...

Pay her respects? That was how she had put it to Marty.

Respects?

It's probably too late for that. Ten years too late.

She can't think of what she will say. Everything she comes up with sounds so insensitive.

Hi Mr and Mrs Roche. I'm Todd Roche. My family own the Roche Chemical Company.

Ten years ago your daughter was abducted and murdered because she was mistaken for me.

I'm calling because I feel really sorry about it. I'm sorry she didn't get to grow up like I did.

I'm sorry my family is rich. I'm sorry we have the same last name and the kidnapper didn't make the distinction.

I'm sorry he didn't take me and save you all this heartache.

What is she expecting in response?

Blame? Anger? Understanding?

Forgiveness?

What if they curse her and slam the phone down?

Sorry won't bring our daughter back!

She sighs in frustration.

Damn it, she tells herself. That is no reason not to try.

She doesn't want Blair Roche hanging over her head for the rest of her life.

She snatches phone up. Dials.

After a few rings, a woman's voice answers.

"Hello?"

Todd recoils at the sound. The tired voice of Marjorie Roche. It's too real. Too pitiful.

"Hello?" the voice repeats, more uncertainly. "Is anybody there?"

Todd shakes her head, lowering the phone, resigned. I can't do this.

"Hello..." small and distant as Todd hangs up.

Her hands rake through her hair, pulling at the follicles as she groans.

All her predictions and anxieties and she cannot even bring herself to speak to the poor woman.

She shoves the notebook off her lap angrily. She's angry at herself, angry for even having the idea in the first place.

...

A few minutes later, the telephone rings. Todd jumps in surprise, eyeing it a little fearfully.

The ghost of Marjorie Roche's voice is whispering in her ear ("Hello?").

Todd picks up,

"Hello?"

A rich mellifluous voice on the other end.

"Hello Todd. It's Adrian."

"A-adrian," his name catches in her throat, she pulls herself together, "How are you?"

Adrian is drained. He has had a busy day, which is nothing out of the ordinary. The usual round of meetings and correspondence. A phone call informing him of Edward Blake's death and the upcoming military funeral.

The latter not his schedule but he had been expecting it all the same.

Adrian doesn't answer her question. He didn't miss the hitch, the retuning of her voice.

"Is something wrong? You sound upset."

Todd looks despondently at the notebook on the floor.

"No, I'm fine," she lies.

She doesn't want to confide in him. She doesn't want to tell him about Rorschach or Blair Roche or Marty or her last phone call.

She doesn't want him to know the truth. It would sully what they have together. She wants their relationship to remain untainted.

Let it be in his company that she can forget, for just a little while. Surely she is entitled to a little selfishness.

Let her have Veidt to herself. He chose her. He took her to the opera and kissed her. In the car, he promised he would call.

With this in mind, Todd is able to smile.

"You kept your promise."

"I'm a man of my word."

Adrian is calling from his office. As he talks to Todd, he is looking out at the New York nightscape. Ablaze in artificial light, the city cannot compare to the night skies at Karnak, the quiet multitudes of stars. He is weary, weary of this city, longing for the kingdom he has built in the desolate snow. He longs for the peace of its halls, the company of his cat.

He would have liked Todd to see Karnak. But as his plan unfolds, he must stay in New York and keep up appearances. She will not get to see his paradise, his Eden in eternal winter. They will not make love amid the flowers. She will not meet Bubastis, a desire she expressed after seeing a photograph.

He cannot give her Bubastis but he can offer himself. For a time.

She is like the last of an exotic species entrusted into his care, to watch over until inevitable extinction. Endearing in her fragility, like the rare plants in his vivarium.

She endears herself to him as a woman too. He is attracted to her. There is a wonder that lights up her eyes that he finds appealing. The wonder in her eyes as she watched Orpheus on stage. The same wonder when she looks at him. He is something other worldly to her, a kind of demigod. She looks at him with a sort of awe, an almost child-like fascination.

Intellectually speaking, she is a child compared to him. A precocious child, she likes to read and to be taught things, but a child nonetheless. She is inclined towards fantasy. She reads for escapism. She avoids thinking about war. Her attention is focused inwards, on her life, what she wants.

_He_ is what she wants. She is selfish as children are selfish, without knowing it.

He finds such a flaw necessary. It will stop him falling in love with her. He can court her knowing that it will not jeopardise his plan. She will not weaken his resolve, but she can ease his loneliness. The loneliness of his immense task. Especially at this juncture, with the blood of the Comedian fresh on his hands. The sole perpetrator in Blake's (necessary) murder, his isolation feels all the more intense.

Todd is sweet, uncomplicated to understand, to be with.

Her simplicity is a welcome distraction, given the complexities he is absorbed in.

An indulgence he will allow himself.

"I would like to see you again. Soon. I hope this isn't too forward of me."

Todd straightens in her excitement. She had wanted to believe this call is not mere courtesy. She wants to believe he might be beginning to love her. She is young woman with all the romantic sensibilities of young women.

"No, no," she says, "I'd like to see you too."

"How about Wednesday evening? If you don't mind, I'd rather you come to the house instead of dining out. I assure you my cooks are excellent."

He has selected that date on purpose. Wednesday is Edward Blake's funeral. After the funeral, he will definitely be in want of some company.

"Wednesday is fine," Todd says, "And I don't mind at all. To tell you the truth, I've been dying to see inside your house."

He laughs, pleased, tells her his driver will pick her up around 7.

Date set, they exchange good nights. Adrian wishes her "sweet dreams", the irony being that Adrian's own dreams lately have been far less sweet.

But Todd is not to know this. She keeps smiling, even after she has hung up the phone.

That is until, out of the corner of her eye, she sees the notebook, sprawled in silent condemnation.

Everything from before comes rushing back. Her exuberance dissolves guiltily.

She picks it up, cradling it gently, promising herself she will try again.

Just not tonight.

**To be continued...**


	6. Chapter 6

**The Other**

**Chapter 6**

**Author's Note: I like writing Walter's dreams, they are horribly f-ed up. No wonder he doesn't sleep. Enjoy!**

_Rorschach's Journal. 15th October, 1985. Draft. Sitting at booth in the Gunga Diner as Kovacs. Avoiding sleep, drinking strong coffee. Last night's activities included bust on drug den. On premises found a locked room full of trafficked Mexican women. Dispatched dealers, tipped off location to police. Investigation of Comedian's murder still proving fruitless. Funeral is tomorrow, planning to attend as Walter, see who shows, might lead to clues. Copy of _Nova Express_ on table. Last customer left it behind. Normally don't read it. Liberal. Sensationalist. Sex-Obsessed. Flipped through it. Articles confirm suspicions. Reached "Out and About" section, Roche woman's face staring back at me. Photograph of her and Veidt at opera. Can't seem to avoid her._

Caption below image reads: Adrian Veidt and Todd Roche: new super-couple? New York's most eligible bachelor and chemical fortune heiress getting cosy at opera premiere.

Closes paper, closes eyes irritably.

Eyes closed, she is still there.

She is wearing his face. On her body. The dress made for Kitty Genovese. Ink blots swirl across her breasts, between her legs, probing, caressing.

He's in the shadows. She runs to him. Smiling, as always, smiling.

"Adrian" she says tenderly.

She's mistaken him. Can't see him properly. Smile not for him.

She reaches into the dark, ink blots on gloves too.

Hands find Walter's face, sweep over it.

Beneath her fingertips, Rorschach falls back into place. Transmission through touch.

Her gloves vanish, Walter vanishes.

Rorschach steps into the light.

Smile changes to confusion, fear. Not Veidt. Not her lover. No recognition.

She backs away. Turns, flees. She breaks apart, limbs separate, butchered in-motion. Disassembled like little girl.

Explosion of fire, swallows dress and jigsaw body.

Force knocks him back, through the glass window of Blake's apartment.

Falling.

As he is falling, he can hear a voice.

"Sir? Excuse me, sir?"

Hits the sidewalk, black, opens eyes, back in diner, breathing heavily.

"Sir?"

Waitress beside him, eyeing him with trepidation.

"I'm sorry, sir, but you can't sleep here."

Glares at her, shaken, she takes a step back.

Softens, better be polite, doesn't want a ban.

"Awake now. More coffee please."

Waitress swallows, faltering smile.

"Okay sure, coming up."

Waitress beats a hasty retreat.

Slumps in chair. Avoiding sleep harder than expected.

...

After work, Todd makes the decision to walk to Lower East Side. She has been toying with the idea all day. Once she starts walking, she refuses to let herself stop, not allowing herself an opportunity to turn back. The notebook page is folded up in her purse, but she's memorised the address, the directions.

She reaches Clinton St. The neighbourhood is shabby. Guilt begins to build, along with a sense of unease. This is an unfamiliar environment. It isn't what she is used to. She wants to go back but presses forward. She has forced herself to come all this way. This is not a phone call from the safety of her apartment. This is where they live, where Blair lived. This pavement has a history of her little footsteps. Perhaps Todd is walking over her tears too, spilt over a skinned knee or dropped ice cream.

She reaches the correct address. An apartment building, old and charmless. There is a teenage boy and girl kissing on the front steps. Preoccupied, they fail to notice her.

"Excuse me," says Todd.

The two break apart, looking guilty.

"Do you know if the Roche's live here?" asks Todd.

The two regard her curiously. Then the girl answers.

"Yeah. We do. Are you after my mom and dad?"

Todd looks at her in surprise. The girl is about thirteen, fourteen. Pretty. Long mousy brown hair. Willowy build, in baggy jeans and a sweater.

"Your mom and dad are Marjorie and Ted Roche?"

The girl nods,

"Yeah. I'm their daughter Cheryl. Who are you?"

Another daughter? Todd hadn't anticipated this variable. Does Cheryl share the features of her dead sister? Todd still doesn't know what Blair actually looked like. Did she have same adorable freckles? Same hazel eyes, bright and inquisitive?

"Todd," she purposely leaves out her surname, "Are your parent's in?"

"My mom is. Dad's still at work," the girl informs her, "Do you wanna come in?"

"Um..." says Todd uncertainly.

It makes her a little uneasy that this girl is inviting a complete stranger into her home, given her family's history. Mistrust she would understand, not easy hospitality.

The boy stands up,

"I better get home. I'll catch you later Cheryl."

He shyly squeezes her hand, eyes darting self-consciously to Todd.

"See you tomorrow," the girl says and waves as he trots off down the street.

"Boyfriend?" Todd asks.

Cheryl laughs, embarrassed.

"Yeah, kind of, he's Randy," she jumps up and opens the front door, looking back, "Are you coming in?"

Todd takes a deep breath, accepts the opportunity being extended, and follows her inside.

...

The Roche's living room is small and modestly furnished. Todd is drawn to the collection of family photographs on the mantelpiece. A photograph of a pig-tailed little girl with mousy hair. Blair? Or her sister? Her eyes flick to another photograph. Marjorie Roche in a maternity gown, holding her newborn, the same little girl hovering at her side.

It's Blair. Here she is. The murdered girl now has a face, and it's smiling, smiling as if nothing bad will happen. Did happen.

As Todd stares at her dead counterpart, Cheryl is announcing her,

"Mom! There's someone here to see you! Mom!"

"Cheryl?" a woman's voice Todd's recognises from last night's phone call, "What are you yelling about?"

Todd turns to see Marjorie Roche.

Blair's mother is in mid to late thirties. Her dark blonde hair cut in short curls. Her face is friendly but deeply lined, worry lines, like wounds healed into scars. She is wearing an apron over her blouse and skirt.

She looks surprised to see Todd, but still smiles,

"Oh hello."

Todd moves away from the photographs.

"Hi. You're Marjorie Roche," she says lamely, not sure how best to begin.

Marjorie Roche's smile falters, wondering what this is all about. This young woman knows her name and that rings alarm bells. She is not from their neighbourhood. She has the polished look of an outsider, in her crisp white shirt and her shiny black heels.

She might be a reporter.

"Yes I am."

"My name is Todd. You don't know me but I..." Todd searches for words, flailing, "came here, because - I feel it's important that I meet you."

Todd knows she's shirking around the point, dipping toes into the water, afraid to plunge in.

She laughs nervously, hollowly.

"I'm sorry. I'm not making much sense."

Marjorie shakes her head,

"Not particularly dear."

Todd sighs, committing herself to the dive,

"Mrs Roche, my family own the Roche Chemical Company."

Realisation spreads over Marjorie Roche's face, understanding in the slight widening of her eyes. Sadness too, but her mouth is set in a brave line.

Todd shifts uncomfortably under her gaze.

"I see," says Marjorie Roche, turning to her daughter, "Cheryl, honey, go do your homework."

"Mom, come on," Cheryl protests with a whine, "I'll do it later."

"Now young lady," her mother says, firmness entering her voice, "Or I'll tell your father what you've getting up to on the porch."

A look of unease crosses the girl's face.

She sighs in defeat, "okay", and shuffles unenthusiastically out of the room.

Marjorie watches her go, waiting a moment when she's out of sight.

Then she turns back to Todd, ready.

"Why are you here Miss Roche?" she asks quietly.

**To be continued...**


	7. Chapter 7

**The Other**

**Chapter 7**

"I came here to talk about your daughter," Todd says, getting down to the simple truth of the matter.

Marjorie nods in understanding. Why else would the girl be here, being who she is.

"By daughter I take it you mean Blair?" she says softly.

"Yes. You see I only just recently found out what happened to Blair," Todd explains, "My family kept it a secret from me because, I guess they didn't want me knowing our connection to it..."

The last part is speculation on Todd's part. She hasn't asked her parents. They are vacating in the Bahamas with her younger siblings, Mitchell and Bobby (Roberta). She has the phone number of hotel room but she has put off contacting them. Whatever justification they had or felt they had doesn't matter. She knows the truth and that is why she is here.

"Connection?" Marjorie says, picking up where Todd left off, "Miss Roche, your family had nothing to do with my little girl's death."

Todd is unprepared for such quick absolution. She cannot accept it, not without proof.

"Not directly no. But he," she struggles to say the next word in front of her, "the killer – he thought Blair was related to my family. That's why he took her."

Marjorie closes her eyes a moment. It's never easy to hear the details of her daughter's death. Even after all these years.

"I'm sorry," Todd says, aware of her discomfort, "I don't want to upset you in any way."

She realises the ridiculousness of this statement. The topic of conversation is this woman's murdered daughter. The nature of the subject is unpleasant. More than unpleasant. Even seeing Blair as simply "murdered", detracts from the true horror she went through. She was abducted, an innocent child scooped into the depths of brutality and depravity. A little girl dehumanised, butchered like a calf and fed to dogs.

Her parents have to live with this terrible knowledge, this burden, knowing their daughter's last moments were spent in pain and fear, crying for "mommy" and "daddy" with a stranger's hand over her mouth, stifling her screams as he cuts into her virgin skin... or perhaps he strangled her first, less fuss, his hands around her throat. Living everyday with this knowledge, not even knowing if what you're imagining is the exact truth, so many awful variables except for the fact that she couldn't be saved, that she wasn't protected.

"What you must have been through," Todd says with quiet horror. What you _still _must go through.

Marjorie opens her eyes to look into the unhappy face of young woman, a young woman who will probably have children of her own one day.

"I hope you never have to," she says, speaking to her as a potential mother, "Losing Blair was... there are no words to describe it. The helplessness. The guilt. The not knowing. Imagining what my little girl must have gone through. No one should have to experience that. I have no resentment for your family, Miss Roche. That - that man who took my Blair, who_ murdered_ her, he's the only one to blame in all this."

"If the killer had taken me, your daughter would still be alive," Todd protests.

Marjorie can see the guilt in Todd's face. Marjorie Roche understands guilt.

"My little girl suffered, Miss Roche," she says, "if you had been taken instead, you would have suffered too, even if your parents had paid the ransom and had you returned to them. It would have affected you, traumatised you," her voice grows tight with emotion, "So don't you go thinking that it would have been for the better."

She blinks away the threat of tears, trying not to dwell on her daughter's final state of mind.

"No one can change the past, Miss Roche," she goes on, "It's no good thinking on what could have been. It's too painful. What if I had picked her up at school instead of letting her walk with the neighbour's children? But I was working and I couldn't be there. I can't change that. I have to live with that. I'm her mother. But you, you have your own family and your own life. It's not your burden to take on."

Todd sighs, why is it so hard for her to accept that? She felt all this time that there must have been a reason why Rorschach told her about Blair Roche. Why else would he have broken into her apartment to tell her? What had he expected from her? She had thought this had been it, reaching out to Blair's parents, trying to make amends for her family, only to be informed that her cause is unnecessary, no comfort at all to this woman before her.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have come," she says, "Forcing you to think about the past like this."

"No don't be sorry," Marjorie insists, "It was considerate of you to come. It shows you care. I think about the past every day. I think about Blair every day. The way she used to be, always laughing, curious about everything. That man can't take her away from me in here," her heart, "or here" her head, "I can't say it doesn't hurt. This year she would have been sixteen, an important age for a girl. I met her father when I was sixteen. But after what happened, I'm still grateful for what I have. I have a husband who works hard to provide for his family, I have another beautiful daughter. I have a roof over my head, a job. A lot of people in the world don't have what I have."

"Not many people would be as brave as you either," Todd says with admiration.

Marjorie shakes her head,

"I'm not brave. I just know in my heart that Blair would want us to be happy. I want her to be proud of us, watching over us in heaven."

I hope that's true, Todd thinks, I hope she is watching over me as well. I hope she is happy and smiling. Perhaps that can be a comfort to both of us.

**To be continued...**


	8. Chapter 8

**The Other**

**Chapter 8**

"Hellooo!" a man's voice startles both women.

Ted Roche is home, throwing off his cap and coat.

He looks slightly older than his wife as his brown hair is thinning on top. His face has the same lines as hers, born of the same experiences. His face is thin but comparing him to past photographs, his face used to be more fleshed out. The same can be said for his body, his uniform probably used to fit him better. He has wide shoulders but they slump, tired after long hours at work.

In spite of his weariness, he has a smile ready for his family.

But then he spots Todd, a stranger in his house.

Puzzled, he looks to his wife for answers.

"Hey, what's going on here? Who's this?"

Marjorie hastens over to kiss his cheek,

"Ted, this is Todd Roche," she says, looking uneasy, "Her family own the Roche Chemical Company."

Ted's face hardens immediately.

"What is she doing here?" he says, his voice just as hard, already knowing.

"She came here to talk... about Blair."

"What the hell for?" Ted snaps, both women wince, he whirls on Todd demanding the answer be from her.

Todd shrinks under his angry gaze.

"Mr Roche, I came here to pay my respects to your family," she manages to get out.

Ted eyes her in disbelief for a second, before laughing bitterly.

"Pay respects? Is that some kind of joke?"

"Ted!" his wife says in a pleading voice, "She doesn't know about that. She only just found out about Blair."

This is the reaction she was afraid of. She had hoped to get the girl to leave before he came home, sparing both the confrontation that was about to take place.

Ted ignores her, his attention on Todd. This girl came to _his _home and he is damn well going to let her in on some home truths.

"Margie wrote to your family when it happened ten years ago. Sent a letter to the company's head office. We didn't have the money and we were desperate. We thought your family might have helped us. Waited. No reply. Nothing! Even if the letter wasn't passed on, it was all over the news. Your family would have seen my little girl's photograph. They would have seen it! Your family chose to not care. It wasn't their kid being held hostage."

Todd absorbs his words with awful realisation. Marjorie Roche has lied to her. Her family is culpable, in a worse way than she thought.

"I didn't know" she says quietly, helplessly, "I'm sorry."

The words are out of her mouth before she realises this is the wrong thing to say.

"Sorry?" Ted explodes, "You're sorry. Do you think that means anything to me? To my wife? Do you think sorry is some magic wand? Have you come with a cheque? It's a little too late for that now."

Tears are pouring down Todd's face. Her guilt and his vehemence have opened the flood-gates. She is ashamed to cry in front of him. Her tears are as worthless to him as her apology.

"Ted!" Marjorie hisses with disapproval, placing herself between them, "You're being unfair. This isn't her fault. She would have been a girl when it happened. You need to calm down."

Her words are unnecessary. Ted's face has already softened, looking uncomfortable at his handiwork.

He hates to see women cry, especially his wife. How she cried when it happened ten years ago, the impotence of seeing the woman he loved in such agony, knowing there was nothing he could do.

Nothing they could do but hold each other and cry and wait for news.

They cry less now but when they do, they cry separately, not wanting to cause the other any upset. But Ted can tell. He will get home from work some days and see it in his wife's eyes, even though she has reapplied her make-up.

"What's going on?" Cheryl appears on the scene, "What are you guys yelling about? Dad?"

Marjorie gives Ted a sharp look, but he is already looking guilty.

"Nothing sweetheart," he says soothingly, "Don't you worry."

"I should really go," Todd says, she has caused this family enough trouble.

All three Roche members turn to look at her. There is no disagreement from husband and wife. They know it is best that she does.

"What's going on?" Cheryl persists.

There is definitely a connection between her dad yelling and this woman crying. She wants to know what happened. She had her door closed, so everything she heard was muffled and incoherent. Now the woman is leaving.

Marjorie turns to her husband,

"Ted, its night time, it's not safe out there. We'll need to call her a taxi."

Ted nods,

"Ring for the cab. I'll wait outside with her."

The prospective of being alone with Ted Roche is not particularly appealing to Todd. She is afraid of him taking the opportunity to lash out at her again. A concern shared by Marjorie.

"Ted..." she says warningly as her husband is heading for the door.

"It's not safe," he replies, "Just call the cab. I'll be back soon."

Todd follows him, stopping in the doorway to turn back and say,

"Goodnight Miss Roche, Cheryl."

"Goodnight," says Miss Roche sadly, her eyes meet hers briefly before lapsing downward.

"Is anyone listening to me?" Cheryl's voice is last thing Todd hears as Ted shuts the door behind them.

...

Ted and Todd stand in heavy silence on the front steps.

Todd's cheeks are stained with mascara tracks. She rubs at her face with her sleeve, trying to make herself more presentable.

"Geez, don't do that," Ted says roughly, startling her, "Shirt probably cost my week's wages. Here."

He produces a handkerchief from his shirt pocket, pressing it into her hands.

The kindness of the gesture takes her aback. New tears spill forth.

"Thank you," she mumbles, burying her face in it.

Ted sighs, fumbling for his cigarettes.

"Don't mention it," he says, cigarette clenched between his teeth as he goes to light it.

He takes a deep draw. Another sigh as he exhales.

"God, I haven't blown off steam like that in a while," he says, more surprised than apologetic, "It builds up you know."

He takes another draw.

"My family has been through a lot, Miss Roche," he says, his previous rage now replaced by contemplative sadness, "I don't want the past dragged up. It's too painful for Margie. She isn't as strong as she acts. Even if you meant well, you shouldn't have come here."

Todd lowers the handkerchief to look at him.

"I'm sorry," she says for what seems to her to be the millionth time. But it's all she can seem to say, even though it's not good enough.

Ted flicks ash.

"Yeah I got that," he says with a spark of impatience, "Look, you wanna make peace with my daughter? Go to the Linden Hill Cemetery, visit her grave. We didn't have no...," his voice falters, "body to bury. We couldn't bury our little girl but we got her a plot. She deserved that at least."

He takes a steadying draw, trying to hold the tears at bay. He doesn't want to appear vulnerable.

He is the father, the one who is supposed to keep it together.

"Go there and lay some flowers, she liked roses. Do that, but don't bother my family again."

No room for negotiation in his voice.

"Do you understand?"

He wants her word.

Todd bobs her head in acquiescence.

"I understand."

Ted extinguishes his cigarette under his heel, nodding.

"Good," he says, glancing up at a set of approaching headlights "Looks like your cab. Goodbye Miss Roche."

There is no friendliness in his farewell, only finality. Weariness.

"Goodbye."

She offers back the damp handkerchief, smeared with mascara.

Ted shakes his head,

"Keep it."

He walks away, returning to the family he is committed to protecting.

Todd keeps the handkerchief close on the cab ride home. A memento of a disastrous night.

Instead of closure, meeting the Roche's has lead to another door of guilt being opened.

Todd wishes that Rorschach had never paid her that visit. She wishes she had never learnt the circumstances of a little girl murdered ten years ago. But as is the case with Blair Roche's death, the past cannot be changed.

She can only focus on present and hope to redeem herself (and her family) by her own standards.

She will start by putting roses on Blair Roche's empty grave.

**To be continued...**


	9. Chapter 9

**The Other**

**Chapter 9**

**Author's Note: Sex in this chapter, nothing too explicit. Enjoy!**

Two cemeteries in New York.

Two cemeteries in the rain.

The Comedian is being laid to rest as a patriot, his coffin draped in the American flag. Old friends exchange handshakes, dressed in suits instead of costumes.

Todd walks along the rows of graves, looking for one that bears Blair Roche's name but not her body. She is wet, carrying a bouquet of white roses instead of an umbrella.

Three men lost in memory as the priest reads the last rites for Edward Morgan Blake 1924 – 1985.

She finds it: Blair Roche 1969 – 1975 Beloved daughter and sister. She kneels down, caressing the words.

Edward William Jacobi comes forward to place a wreath on grave of his fallen enemy. Leaving the service he is recognised by a man who will go to his house and ambush him.

Todd also lays her flowers. An envelope is tucked between the stems. Ted Roche will discover it later, carefully removing the sodden note inside. A note addressed to his daughter, hard to read as the ink has run.

The living exit, a graveyard is no place for them. Prayers have been said, respects have been paid, memories revisited. It is time to move on.

...

The rain persists into the evening.

In one part of New York, Rorschach is confronting Moloch. Jacobi has just revealed that Blake paid him a drunken visit before he died. He tells him how scared he was, how Blake was crying, how he rambled about a list and an island...

In another part of New York, Todd is being ushered into Veidt's mansion by doorman sheltering her with an umbrella.

Inside, the path is flanked by display cases containing a collection of wonders, busts, figurines, pottery and papyrus. She only grabs a passing glance at everything. Veidt's man delivers her to his master without delay.

Adrian is waiting for Todd by the fire. The flames rekindle his memory of Nelson's burning chart and Blake's taunting words. Today he watched this man be lowered into the earth, a man he threw to his death with his bare hands. He remembers Blake's expression before the end, a look of defeat, so reduced from his former self. Conquered.

Footsteps bring him back to the present. He turns away from the fire, greeting his guest with an easy smile belying his earlier thoughts.

Todd smiles back. In the wake of her meeting with Blair's parents, she glad to be in the company of someone who looks happy to see her. She is even happier when he takes her into his arms, his lips brushing her forehead.

...

"So what do you think of the house?" Adrian asks later on, "I hope it has lived up to your expectations."

"It's amazing," Todd says, "Like walking through a museum. You don't happen to have a mummy lying around somewhere?"

Adrian laughs,

"No. I draw the line at corpses."

A hanging image catches Todd's eyes. The style is unmistakably Ancient Egyptian.

She wanders over to have a better look.

She can name two of the figures depicted. Anubis and Thoth. Between the two is a large scale, balancing a small pot and a feather on opposite ends. A smaller version of Anubis is kneeling beside the scale. Next to him is a fierce-looking quadruped with a crocodilian face and a lion's mane.

"It's the weighing of the heart ceremony," says Adrian, coming to stand beside her.

"Weighing of the heart?" Todd repeats, fascinated.

"The weighing of the heart was the final judgement deciding entry into the afterlife," Adrian explains, "A person's heart was weighed against the feather of truth to determine worthiness. A life of goodness made the heart lighter and a life of bad deeds made it heavier. Only those with a light heart could tip the scale favourably and pass on into the afterlife."

"And if the heart was too heavy?"

"In that instance, the person was judged unworthy and their heart was devoured by the demon Ammit," Adrian points to the crocodile-lion, "Without a heart, they would cease to exist."

Todd thinks about Blair Roche's killer. It would be comforting to think that in death, he could be judged in this manner, to have his heart eaten by a monster, just as his dogs had feasted on the little girl he butchered.

"Do you think they had it right?" she asks Adrian, "That this is what's waiting for us when we die?"

Adrian smiles,

"Our lives judged by the tipping of a scale? It has a beautiful simplicity to it, don't you think?"

If this is the judgement awaiting him, Veidt knows he will face it with blood on his hands. The death of this girl beside him, just one of many, will make his heart heavy. He can only hope that his good intentions will count for something. He is killing to create peace, to put an end to war, to make other men's hearts lighter.

Still Ammit's eye seems to regard him hungrily.

Yes, a beautiful and terrifying simplicity.

...

Rorschach leaves Moloch's house, making his way back to the cemetery. A prostitute offers her body as he passes...

"I want you," Todd says boldly as she and Adrian break apart from a kiss. She wants her thoughts to be only of him, as he makes love to her, no longer consumed by thoughts of death and guilt and regret...

It is Rorschach's thoughts that dwell on death, death and a Pagliacci joke, standing by Blake's rose-covered grave. He plucks one, red rose...

Todd is writhing in a sea of purple silk, Adrian above her, inside her. She clings to him like a life-raft, moving with him. Behind drawn curtains, rain streaking down the glass like tears, the sky carries on weeping...

It is weeping on a lone masked man heading back out into the night. A stolen flower in his lapel. Searching for answers, he will not rest...

Todd falls asleep in Veidt's arms, content, forgetting the girl whose empty grave she decorated with her favourite flowers. For the time being...

**To be continued...**


	10. Chapter 10

**The Other**

**Chapter 10**

Early the next morning, Adrian is already dressed for work. He sits on the edge of the bed and shakes Todd gently out of slumber.

She greets him with a contented smile, reaching up to caress his face.

"Good morning."

He takes hold of her hand and kisses it.

"Good morning."

"You're dressed," Todd murmurs, propping herself up.

"Yes, I'm afraid I have to leave. I have a meeting with representatives from the Indian Famine Appeal."

Todd is disappointed but hides it.

"That's okay. You go save the world."

Go save the world. Of all the things she could have said to him.

The ominous irony to which she is oblivious.

He kisses her forehead, knowing the choice of words is merely a fluke.

He promises that he will make time for her.

The cooks will make her anything she wants for breakfast.

She nods, lets him go. She knows that she can't have a man like Veidt all to herself, not a man who has so much to give the world.

She has already made plans for this evening with another man.

A certain reporter who's kindness she needs to repay.

...

Marty is waiting for her when she arrives at Rafael's. He has dressed for the occasion, wearing his best suit. He looks pleasantly surprised to see her.

"I thought you might not show," he admits as they are led to their table.

"We had a deal," Todd says, "Oh, before I forget..." she kisses him on the cheek.

Marty laughs in embarrassment.

"Was that part of the deal?" he says as they take their seats, "I don't remember."

"No, just part of my thank you for helping."

"So how did that go?" Marty inquires, "Did you ring the parents?"

"I did. Only I chickened out and hung up without even saying anything..."

Todd sighs at her folly,

"So I went to their house instead."

Marty's eyes widen with interest.

"What happened? Did you meet them?"

"Yes. They weren't happy to see me. The father mostly, he yelled at me," Todd winces at the memory, "Turns out that when Blair was kidnapped, they reached out to my family for help and got no response. He's still angry about it, understandably."

"Yeah but you didn't know that right?" Marty says, coming to her defence, "He shouldn't have taken it out on you. You were tryin' to put things right."

Todd shrugs,

"That's the thing. Maybe I'm not meant to put things right. You can't change the past," she says, echoing the words of Marjorie Roche.

Marty is regarding her sympathetically.

"So where does that leave you?" he asks.

"I don't know," she says truthfully.

When she laid flowers on Blair's grave, it didn't feel like resolution.

She smiles bitterly.

"I'm sorry, I'm such a downer. I bet you wish you hadn't asked me to dinner."

"Well I'd complain if you weren't so good looking," Marty says with a grin.

Todd's smile changes to one of amusement.

"Does that charm of yours help a lot in your profession?"

"There's not much room for charm when ya writing about our stand-off with Russia," Marty replies, "Which is the only topic I seem to writing at the moment."

The humour has faded from his face, replaced by weariness.

"That must be tough," Todd says, she can understand what it's like to dwell on a depressing subject.

"I admit it does start to get to ya," Marty says, "All that doom and gloom. Threat of nuclear war, end of days etc, etc," he waves his hand dismissively, "But let's not go there. You know what we need?"

Todd shakes her head.

"We need to get drunk," Marty says matter-of-factly.

Todd laughs,

"We do?"

"Yeah, drown our sorrows. What do you say?"

"Sounds good to me," Todd says.

Marty hails a passing waiter, "Hey, can we order some drinks over here?"

...

Several rounds and several hours later, Todd and Marty stumble happily out of Rafael's.

"That's the first time I've had a lady pick up the check," Marty says, "I feel both flattered and emasculated."

"You did me a favour remember," Todd says, "This is my way of repaying you."

"Then I think you got the short end of stick. Talk about overpriced."

Todd smiles,

"It was worth it. I had a nice time. You're a good guy Marty."

"Ha, that's the alcohol talking."

Todd hits him playfully on the shoulder, "No I mean it."

Marty holds up his hands in mock surrender, "Okay I concede. I'm wonderful."

Todd laughs, she can't help laughing at him. She likes his sense of humour. She is able to relax around him, be herself.

It isn't like that with Adrian. She is always so _aware _around him, of what she says, wanting to impress him. He is so... perfect. A perfection that reflects her own imperfections back at her. She has none of his drive or generosity. It's his intelligence too, his worldliness, it makes her feel stupid. This is unintentional on his part. He can't help being the world's smartest man.

She wants to be worthy of him, which means she must become better, better than what she is.

With Marty, this is unnecessary. They are simply two flawed human beings, enjoying each other's flawed company.

"We should do this again some time," she tells him as he opens the cab door for her to climb in.

Marty smiles, not Adrian's brilliant white smile, but endearing all the same.

"You have my number," he says.

He goes to the driver's window and passes him a bunch of notes.

"Get her home safe pal."

Todd sticks her head out the window as the cab pulls out,

"You didn't have to do that."

Marty laughs, waving,

"Yeah I did. Night Todd."

...

The cab is edging along in traffic when she spots him. Walking down the street. An unmistakeable figure in his fedora and trench coat and mask. Rorschach.

She turns to watch him through the back window. He turns into an alleyway, disappearing.

She knows she has to follow him. He's the one who got her into this mess. She needs to talk to him.

"Can you stop? I need to get out."

She scrambles to unfasten her seat-belt. She has to move fast, otherwise she will lose him.

The driver turns his head to look at her,

"I thought you wanted to go the Village?"

"I've changed my mind," Todd says urgently, hand on the door handle, "Please pull over!"

...

Rorschach stops, Kovacs' mouth frowning underneath his face.

Someone is calling his name.

"Rorschach! Wait! Rorschach!"

Woman's voice. Mad click of heels.

Behind him.

Turns.

Todd Roche is running towards him.

The woman who has been haunting his dreams. Here. In the flesh.

In a grubby little back street, far from her upscale apartment.

Calling out to him.

"Rorschach!"

**To be continued...**


	11. Chapter 11

**The Other**

**Chapter 11**

He has heard her call and is waiting for her ahead. Todd slows her pace, stopping several metres from him. She is panting from her chase, her breath spiralling in the chilly air. She smiles faintly, out of relief that her pursuit hasn't been in vain.

Here he is, regarding her with hands buried in his pockets.

"Miss Roche. Surprised to see you here. Suspect dark alleyways aren't your usual hang out."

He doesn't sound surprised, with his monotone voice. As always, his face is hidden behind the mask. She is not able to translate the emotions in those shifting patterns.

"I need to talk to you," Todd says.

"Deduced as much. How did you find me?"

"I saw you from my cab," Todd jerks her head toward the main street, "I thought I might have lost you but I didn't," she smiles more freely, "It must have been fate."

"Don't believe in fate," Rorschach replies brusquely, "The circumstances are merely convenient. I'm listening Miss Roche."

He sounds impatient but that is because her presence agitates him, stirring dream memories. But he cannot avoid her on that basis, not when she has made the effort to seek him out. There must be a reason, he will judge whether it's good or not.

Todd senses his standoffishness but she assumes it to be his natural state, not something she has provoked. Rorschach doesn't strike her as a conversationalist. Whether or not their meeting was fate, in this moment of opportunity she too feels the necessity to get straight to the point.

"I met Blair's parents," she tells him, "I tracked them down and went to see them."

His reaction to her confession is unreadable. He is still, except for the ceaseless black metamorphosis splayed across his face. Beneath he is surprised at the revelation but senses that she has more to say, remaining silent.

"Stupid, I shouldn't have done it," Todd goes on, taking it upon herself to voice criticism in lieu of his silence, "I was the last person they wanted to see."

More silence and in the silence, she sighs.

"I just felt..." she says, closing her hand into a ball of self-determination, "Like I had to do something," she smiles bitterly, her words as ineffectual as her uncurling fist, nothing in her palm but air chilling her fingers, "I thought seeing them might... I don't know."

Her eyes turn upwards. The night sky holds notions of heaven and little girls with angel wings.

She turns back to Earth.

"I can't stop thinking about her. Her father told me to lay flowers on her grave. I did that," she says, hands proffered helplessly "I don't know what else I'm supposed to do."

She is looking to him for an answer.

More direct, pleading "_Tell me_."

It's time. Rorschach breaks his silence.

"Live with it," is his answer, callous but he isn't going to comfort her with lies, he isn't a parent reassuring a child after a nightmare, this is the world, this is reality, "That is all you can do."

She looks at him incredulously.

The wisdom he is offering is hard and hopeless.

"That's it?"

"What were you expecting?" he can't help but sound slightly sneering at her naiveté.

Did she think he would offer some path to absolution?

Ironic that she would seek him out for this purpose, the one born from the trauma of that little girl's death, inhabiting the body of the man who promised and failed to save her.

Every broken bone, every drop of blood, each act of violent justice, past and future, all started by this tragedy and this woman asking him how to make peace with it.

Asking him how to atone.

His brutality in eliminating crime in all its forms is his atonement. It is his purpose. He is a Fury, born in a moment of fury, to dispense fury. His eyes see the world in all its horrible clarity, born in a moment where that clarity was laid bare.

Did she really expect any other answer from him?

Obviously she did, from the flush of disappointment on her face.

"I don't know," she says softly, her lips tighten, "Not_ that_. Live with it?" she shakes her head, wanting to continue her disillusionment, believing she can rectify the situation with well-meaning but useless gestures, "I can't. I don't..."

She sounds so much like a protesting child. Appropriate given she has a child's sheltered understanding of the world, blind-folded at birth.

"Then we have nothing to discuss," he replies, "Can't offer you alternative. Have to find comfort elsewhere. Try Veidt."

Reference to Veidt is intentional. The man knows how to turn his back on injustices unless it's good for publicity. He can raise money for famine in India while ignoring the children crying on his doorstep. Let her find example in Veidt and leave him alone.

He half-turns, though he is conflicted about leaving her. It isn't safe for her to be left alone here.

But she thinks he is doing just that.

"Don't walk away from me," she says, she is a woman in her anger and in her anger there is accusation, "You broke into my apartment remember? You dragged me into this. You can't just walk away!"

Her outburst leaves her weak, collapsing against the wall behind her, grasping her head,

"God, everything is spinning."

The booze is taking its toll and it's badly timed.

"You're drunk Miss Roche," Rorschach states, he has been watching her swaying on the spot, noticed the slur of her speech.

Todd laughs. It comes out louder than she can control it, laughing in absurdity.

"Yeah a bit!"

She slides down the wall to crouch on her knees, burying her face in the folds of her arms, makes a noise that could be another laugh or a sob.

"Get up," he says, standing over her.

She lifts her head, the expression uncertain, lost. Lost child. How quickly she reverts back to a child, drifting between two states.

"Come with me," he says but doesn't offer her a hand to get up.

Doesn't want the contact. Avoids contact with women, with any person really unless it's to do harm. But with her this reluctance is magnified due to his dreams. He can feel the ghost of her dream-hands on his face.

Todd voices no complaint, slowly complacently getting to her feet.

"Where are we going?" she asks as she follows, or rather stumbles after him, back to the light of the main street.

"Taking you home. Not safe for you here. Drunk and provocatively dressed. Draws bad kind of attention. Like having a target painted on your back."

Todd snorts, tripping a little in her distraction.

"Provocatively dressed?"

All the same she draws her coat more protectively over her bosom.

He leads her to the first parked cab he spies. The driver jumps to have a masked familiarity loom against his window and open the passenger door for a young woman to climb inside.

Rorschach considers leaving it at that. But the sight of Todd curled up in the corner of the cab, eyes already closed, concerns him. He is distrustful of abandoning her with an unknown man when she is teetering on the edge of unconscious.

He gets into the cab.

Gives address to driver, who is peeping at him cautiously in his mirror.

What the hell is a wanted vigilante doing hopping into his cab with a young woman? And wanting to go to the Village of all places.

"Listen, I don't want any trouble," he says, not a threat but a plea.

"No trouble," Rorschach says, "Need you to drive now."

"Okay," the driver complies, fearing the repercussions. He's heard the stories. If they are true, he doesn't want to test this man's capabilities.

"Rorschach?" Todd murmurs sluggishly, roused by the engine. Her eyes are open, just barely.

"Should be home soon," he tells her.

Todd sighs, eyes flutter closed.

"Thank you."

Gratitude spoken, she drifts off, knowing that he will deliver her as promised. She doesn't doubt he is a man of his word, however harsh the words might be. He will watch over her. Watches her sleep and wonders if she dreams of him or Blair Roche or Veidt. Perhaps nothing at all, solace in oblivion. In this temporary sleep a temporary reprieve. Until the cab reaches its destination and she has to wake.

He will be there when she does. That is a certainty awaiting her.

Whether Blair Roche will plague her for the rest of her life is a different matter.

**To be continued...**


	12. Chapter 12

**The Other**

**Chapter 12**

Todd has to lean on Rorschach to make it from the cab to her door. An unpleasant experience for the latter, having to loop his arm around her, feeling her weight press against him. But her intoxication has compromised her balance and made her legs treacherous. There was no other option other than to physically support her.

Todd was half-asleep when sliding out of the cab, nearly toppling onto the ground if he hadn't caught her arm. But the cold air is a splash of icy water, jolting her eyelids back, her vision still in the throes of inebriation, the world rocking like a ship. She closes her eyes against it, moving forward in stagnate darkness, letting him guide her. She wants badly to throw up but holds it in.

At the door she fumbles blindly for her keys, they slip through her fingers clanging on the floor. She hears Rorschach give of growl of frustration ("Huhn"). He props her against the wall and retrieves them, the second key he tries fits home. As soon as the door swings open Todd rushes in, straight to the bathroom though not in a straight line.

_God damn Marty_, she thinks as she's vomiting, _getting me get drunk. _

She flushes the contents and rinses the aftertaste from her mouth, feeling a little better.

In the kitchen Rorschach is pilfering from a biscuit tin. When Todd walks in, he has his mask rolled up, in the process of shoving one into his mouth.

She stares in surprised fascination, noting the stubble-covered chin dotted with crumbs before Rorschach quickly covers it from view. She wonders if he is glaring at her, upset to be caught partially de-masked.

"Sorry about that," she says somewhat sheepishly, gingerly crossing the room to settle on the couch. Her apology is inclusive of all the night's events, including what she has just witnessed.

"Advise not to drink so much," he replies, stowing a few more biscuits into his pocket, "Bad for you."

Todd tips her head back, closing her eyes.

"Tell me about it," she says, opening her eyes and looking back at him, "Thank you."

Rorschach makes a dismissive noise, walking over, slowing by the mantelpiece and the photograph of Todd and her dog.

"Said something earlier about visiting Blair Roche's grave," he says to Todd.

"Hmm?" says Todd tiredly, "Oh yes, I went there and laid flowers. Roses. Her father said they were her favourite."

Roses.

Roses for the Comedian. Roses for Blair Roche.

"Have you been there?" Todd asks, then apologetically, "I don't mean to pry, I just..."

"No. Didn't know it existed. No body, nothing to bury."

"Her father said she deserved a proper grave, even if it's empty," Todd says, "I'm surprised you didn't know."

"Why? No business in knowing," he replies.

He has no place visiting the grave of a little girl he couldn't save, an empty grave indicative of his failure. A place of hollow mourning, no body beneath rotting naturally, rotted already inside dog stomachs, cremated and ashes scattered with dog and man alike. He watched this grotesque funeral, lit the pyre.

Why sully the sanctified patch of ground her parents have chosen, purified with prayer, made bright with flowers, a tombstone marking the passing of a loved daughter instead of a murdered girl. Why sully it with the memory of blood and death and fire.

"What do you mean?" Todd says, "Of course it's your business. You're the one who brought down the killer."

"Too late, girl already dead," he reminds her, "Broke promise to parents. Wouldn't be welcome at her grave."

"How do you know that?" Todd questions, "Is that what they told you?"

"Didn't speak to parents after it happened. Couldn't face them, couldn't face broken promise. Thought it best for them not to know the details. Let them grieve in ignorance. Let them keep hold of Blair the way she was."

Todd sits up more alertly, brow furrowed,

"I don't understand. Are you telling me they don't know how Blair died?"

"No, nothing about particulars of death."

"What about the killer? There would have been a trial, a confession..."

"No trial," Rorschach cuts in bluntly, "Only execution."

Todd suddenly understands.

"Did you... You killed him."

"Yes."

Recalling it vividly in his head but doesn't describe it to her. Hand-cuffs, kerosene, man's protests, fire.

She is staring at him fearfully, seeing him in a new light, as a murderer. She has been conditioned to see murder as wrong, that judgement belongs in the courts.

But who is she to condemn his actions? Can she say that if she had been in his shoes, she would have let the man live? After stepping into his house of horrors, discovering what had happened, would it have sent her over the edge, driven her to kill in retribution, succumb to ancient tradition, blood for blood?

Her face softens.

"You did what you had to," she reasons, "What he did..." she takes in a long breath, reflecting on the murder, just as she has done countless times since being told, finally concluding, "He deserved it."

He has never doubted his actions that night. No mercy. Never compromise. But this is the first time anyone has expressed agreement with the course of justice taken. It comes from the mouth of a woman who shares Blair Roche's smile, almost like affirmation from the little girl herself.

Todd rises from the couch.

"If Blair's parents knew what you did," she says gently, "I don't think they would blame you."

It's not her place to make such an assertion but she feels for him, living with the guilt of a broken promise, two sets of blood on his hands, a girl he couldn't save and a murderer he decided to kill. She has only had to suffer Blair Roche on her conscience for several days, what is that compared to what he has experienced. No wonder he reacted so harshly to her complaining.

She approaches him, he tenses.

In his dreams, such a breach into his space has always ended badly.

"I don't think Blair would blame you," she says, her pitying face vast in its proximity.

She reaches for him, only wanting to touch him out of empathy.

Grabs hold of her hands at the wrists, halting their journey towards him, pinning them mid-air.

His grip is tight and Todd winces, in pain, but also hurt by the forcefulness of his rebuff.

She stares at him with wide tremulous eyes, an expression that makes him just as uncomfortable as the thought of her touching him.

Releases her, moving away.

"Don't take this personally. Don't like being touched."

"I'm sorry," Todd says in a small voice.

Her hands are shaking and she folds her arms to hide it.

But he isn't looking at her.

He is heading towards the door and she is half grateful he is. She is wary of him now, like an animal which has lashed out in warning.

"Should be going," he says, "Talked enough. You should rest," pauses in the doorway but doesn't turn back, "In hindsight, shouldn't have broken in that night. Caused you trouble. Wasn't my intention. Apologise. You shouldn't feel guilty. Not your fault. Good night Miss Roche."

Doesn't wait for a response, closing the door between them.

He's gone but his words linger in the air. Todd draws them in, exhaling a ragged sigh.

His words were meant to allay her fears of responsibility. Despite her stinging wrists, she clings to this reassurance from the man who introduced Blair into her life. She believes he wouldn't lie to her. He lacks the sensitivity to bestow such a mercy without justification. This man is a better authority of Blair's death than anyone. He has taken it upon himself to assume the guilt, even after dispatching her killer, rejecting Todd's attempts to persuade him otherwise.

_Live with it. That is all you can do._

She understands now that he was speaking from experience. He has lived with Blair's murder for ten years and he has lived with it by himself. She has shared the guilt for a little while, tortured herself over it, but now he has cut her loose.

He has taken the burden with him out into the night. Alone.

...

_Rorschach's Journal. October 17th, 1985. Investigation detoured, Roche woman in alley. Came looking for me. Woman haunting me wants to be rid of ghost. Feeling little girl's murder like estranged twin. Imagines blood on her hands. But there is no blood. Blood blackened in fire and everything turned to ash. Only thirteen, growing up in fortified bubble, not culpable. Told her that. Roche tried to tell me the same thing. That I'm blameless. She's wrong. Doesn't understand. Not enough that I put killer down. Cockroaches breed more cockroaches, plague proportions. Forgiveness and complacency ineffective pesticide. Can't resurrect innocence. Have to go on killing cockroaches. Roche woman no exterminator. Belongs back in bubble. Leave me to my work, unfinished business._

**To be continued...**


End file.
